Poetic Interlude XII

I was thumbing through a lost notebook, Gentle Reader, and for this week’s Poetic Interlude I thought I’d post some of the unpolished fragments I found. A few of them have been worked over since, turned and tuned; these are the roughs. Mostly, they are orphaned lines, alone in the world. Enjoy.

Recall the thrill of Novocaine
Though heart is soft as stone,
The winter dawn is jubilant:
The frost on brambles shone.
I end my vigil, for tonight –
My Uncle fades to bone.
I know no comfort, deaf to grief,
The room is flat, and oil;
Like hangover, I’m cross and crisp
My eyes begin to boil.
The sun, she rises anyway:
We sift him in the soil.
I don’t know whence these demons came
Or through which mental door;
I know I’ll either kill or cry-
My psyche is at war:
I might claw out my viscera,
Or maybe slit my face:
Bisect my lower lip and jaw
And cut them into lace.
It’s possible I’ll murder you,
And tear into your skin –
A mouthful of carotid will
Not relieve my sin,
Or the turmoil that I’m in.
I’m lost in vague miasma, the ash of what was thought –
I buy another bottle, and contemplate my lot:
Climb we now to hateful bed,
A hundred horrors in our head:
Anger, pain – prop up the eye;
The spiteful hours trickle by.


©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
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